The Larses and Luke
by shakespeareansushi
Summary: Neither Owen nor Beru could have ever imagined how Luke's arrival would change their lives. And once he was a part of their lives, they could never have imagined life without him. A series of brief vignettes, not necessarily in order, exploring Luke's childhood with Owen and Beru on Tatooine.
1. The Beginning

Owen wrapped his arm around Beru, more to steady himself than anything else. He was not a sentimental man, but he couldn't believe how tiny the infant was. Beru smiled as she laid a finger to the slumbering baby's smooth skin. She beamed up at her husband.

"His skin is so soft," she told him, a gentle brightness alight in her eyes. "Here." She reached out for Owen's hand, but he recoiled when she began to draw it near the child's face. The baby was so small and delicately beautiful that Owen had the strange feeling that he might harm it with his touch.

"Beru looked surprised, but once she met his eyes, her confusion melted into warmhearted amusement. "You're afraid, Owen!" she realized, looking at him in wonder and with love.

"I'm not," Owen replied gruffly, indignantly, feeling defeated by the depth of Beru's insight.

"You don't need to worry; it's all right," Beru said soothingly, and slowly, with her own work-worn hand, she brought the backs of Owen's calloused fingers to the baby's soft skin. It was an unfamiliar sensation, smooth and silky, so unlike Tatooine with its coarse sand and hard labor.

"Luke," Beru whispered, her eyes focused on the sleeping infant.

"Luke," murmured Owen, becoming aware of the silent joy that lit the features of his young wife.

He drew her more securely to his side as they watched the twin suns sink below the horizon. Tomorrow would dawn a new day and begin a new period of their lives.


	2. Beru

"Hi, Aunt Beru."

Beru looked up from the flatbread she had just removed from the oven to discover wide, blue eyes before her.

"Hello, Luke," she said to the boy sweetly, using a white, wide-faced paddle to turn over the loaves and make sure they had browned, but not burnt. Luke dragged over a nearby stool and, climbing on top of it, watched her every action with growing fascination.

Beru smiled graciously. "Would you like to help?" She handed Luke the paddle, eliciting a satisfied, if mildly lopsided, grin from the child, and watched as he copied her movements. One of the loaves slipped from the paddle and was headed towards the ground, but Beru quickly caught it with fluid fingers.

Luke gasped in approval. "You're fast, Aunt Beru," he smiled, his face brightening with thrill.

And then, all at once, angel became devil.

Luke dropped another piece of flatbread on purpose, giggling as Beru fairly dove to salvage it. The next loaf he flung across the kitchen, like a flying disc, centrifugal force allowing the bread to journey as it had never done before. Beru raced to catch it in her apron.

Beru exhaled incredulously and shook her head. "Luke…"

Circumstances grew worse still when Luke realized he could use the paddle as a lever in order to launch loaves of flatbread through the air. A perfect scientist, he was! Beru simply stood her ground as a loaf of bread flattened itself against the cupboard behind her, followed by a shriek of childish laughter. She furrowed her brow slightly.

It was not Beru's style to shout or to deliver ultimatums—that was Owen's. Instead she employed her infinite patience, and waited, her eyes trained closely on Luke until she had caught his attention.

Gradually, Luke realized that he had lost his rival, and met Beru's gaze curiously. No words needed to be said, for Beru had mastered the art of nonverbal communication. She did nothing but look upon him, and then Luke knew. Realization dawned upon him like a double sunrise.

The boy's face grew ashen as he slowly set down the paddle. Beru softened her glance sympathetically, sensing his guilt, but held her head high. She nodded once, and Luke abashedly began to clean up the mess.


	3. Stones

"This stone is here in memory of my mother," Owen told the young boy, who had just inquired as to the memorial's purpose. Luke cocked his head at his uncle, his shaggy blond hair falling to one side, in a way that suggested that the idea of Owen having a mother was apparently inconceivable.

"I didn't know you had a mother," Luke said, somewhat in awe.

"Everyone has a mother," Owen replied thoughtlessly, looking softly upon the stone that marked Shmi's grave. Of course, Shmi had not been his real mother, but his stepmother. Her real son had been Anakin, Luke's father–but he need not tell Luke that.

"…I don't."

Owen glanced over at Luke, jolted from his thoughts by the sudden melancholy that had crept into his nephew's voice.

"You don't what?" he asked. Luke glanced at Owen and kicked at the sand.

"Have a mother."

Owen blinked slowly and ran his coarse, calloused fingers through his short hair. The conversation had just taken a turn he had not anticipated.

"…You did," he replied stiffly, not entirely sure of how to approach the situation. Gentleness and nurturing were Beru's strengths, not his. "Both of your parents died when you were very young, Luke."

Of course, Luke had already known this. Owen and Beru had never kept it from him, nor had they ever pretended to be Luke's parents. Luke knew that his real parents were dead. But never had Owen seen Luke appear so crushed by the fact as he did now… His big, blue eyes, ordinarily so bright and cheerful, now seemed to be shrouded with dark clouds.

"…Come on, Luke," Owen urged finally, not wanting to see the painful image of grief on the face of a child any longer. "Let's get back to the house. Aunt Beru must be getting ready to serve dinner by now."

And so they left the graveside, with Luke reluctantly throwing mournful glances behind…

* * *

It was a couple of weeks later that Owen returned to Shmi's grave once more, this time alone. He had just knelt down when he noticed two small stones–pebbles, really–beside the memorial. He couldn't recall having ever seen them before, and though the winds of Tatooine were strong, they could not have possibly moved stones of this size. As Owen took them up in his hands for closer inspection, he was just barely able to make out the faint, clumsy, childlike inscriptions in the rock:

 _Luke's mommy._

 _Luke's daddy._

Owen stared at them at first. Then he bowed his head and clenched his large fists over the small stones.

In the midst of the dry, arid desert, moisture could be found in the eyes of a lone farmer, kneeling in the sand, with a sorry pebble in each of his rough palms.


	4. Dusk

Beru held Luke's hand gently in her own as they gazed out into the open expanse of the nocturnal Tatooine sky. The twin suns had just retired for the night, leaving only dim streaks of pink and orange as their farewells. The dry desert chill was beginning to creep over the dunes of sand, and Beru bent over to wrap Luke's shawl more closely around his body. Then she straightened herself, squeezed the boy's hand, and focused her eyes on the heavens, awaiting the commencement of the nightly celestial pageant.

One by one, cheerful, glimmering stars began to peek out, sending their greetings from the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Gradually, they populated the celestial sphere, like members of family congregating for a heartfelt reunion. The dimmer the light grew, the brighter Tatooine's three moons, big, round, and gentle, began to shine, extending their good wishes across the sky. They kept peaceful vigil over their realm, like mothers protecting their young.

Beru felt as though she were a part of all that she saw―the moons, the stars, the sky. She had experienced the feeling before, but she hardly knew how to describe the sensation. Though she was certain that she would never leave Tatooine…she didn't feel the need to. Simply standing here, with her feet planted in the sand and her eyes trained on the heavens, Beru felt as if she had visited all of these stars and all of these planets that waved to her from the distance.

Owen would never understand what she meant, if she tried to tell him. But that was all right. The beauty that Beru witnessed at this moment was a subtle one, a silent one, better appreciated independently than through explanation.

As Beru was meditating upon her wordless reverie, she felt a shiver beside her. She looked down at Luke, and saw that there were tears in his wide dreamer's eyes, reflecting moonlight and starlight and the remnants of sunlight. She saw the universe mirrored back to her in his orbs, along with something else that she didn't quite understand.

"What's wrong?" she asked, knitting her brow in concern. Luke simply shook his head, unwilling to take his eyes from the view before him.

"…It's so beautiful," he whispered after a reverent pause, awe and admiration emanating from his tiny voice. He tried to say something else, but couldn't, and so he repeated himself once more. "It's all so beautiful."

His precociously sagacious words took Beru by surprise. He understood, she realized. He knew.

She smiled.

Beru took the boy in her arms and held him close, lifting him from the ground to bring him nearer to the sky.

"Yes," she whispered back. "Yes, it is."


	5. Anakin

Owen looked at the words in the worn book, but didn't read them. Even so, there were a few that seemed to jump off the page against his will, taunting him.

 _Jedi._

 _Galaxy._

 _Anakin._

Owen exhaled deeply and pressed his eyes shut with two fingers, closing the journal in his other hand. Truth be told, he had never once actually sat down to read a passage from Shmi's diary. He always only skimmed over it, glancing at a few words at a time, sometimes only singular letters, afraid to be reminded of the mother he had lost.

Of course, that was not what he told Beru. What he told Beru was that he didn't have the time for leisurely reading.

Apart from that, Owen didn't believe there was much to gain in reading the journal. As any person might have done, Owen had already searched the book for references to his own name. But the name that arose most often within the flowing script was "Anakin."

Owen had met Anakin once. The Jedi Knight—was that what they were called? —had unsettled him, frightened him, even. When Anakin had looked into Owen's eyes, Owen had felt the gaze of one who could kill. Who would kill. And then, in a matter of days, Anakin was gone, as if he had never come at all. He had abandoned them. And he had abandoned Shmi, who had done nothing but wait and wait for his return…

And he had abandoned Luke, too, in a way. He had shown that his child was not his priority. How else would anyone be able to put himself in mortal danger, with the knowledge that he had an infant son?

Owen shook his head and began to get up from his seat.

Beru had told him that she wanted Luke to be able to read Shmi's diary, one day. She wanted Luke to have some sort of connection to his father.

But Owen disagreed. Anakin was not for Luke to know. After all, Shmi had dedicated herself to Anakin—how many nights had she waited diligently under the stars, hoping to see the return of her son? How many stories had she told, as if with each memory she might bring him back? And how many times had Shmi wept, because she missed Anakin, and could not have him safe in her arms? Too many. Too many.

And for what? When Anakin had finally appeared, to live up to the glory that Shmi had painted him with, he arrived just in time to attend his mother's funeral and was promptly off again. In Owen's mind, Anakin Skywalker had been too engrossed in the wizardry of the Jedi and their foolish idealistic crusades to care about anything else—or any _one_ else.

Owen had seen how much grief Anakin had caused Shmi in her lifetime, and he was not about to let Anakin do the same to Luke. Owen hid the journal away, in the chest where he had kept it for the past ten years, banishing it for a decade more in the company of sand and dust and bitter memories.


End file.
